Baby
by Garbage and City Lights
Summary: Isaac fic. A story about what happens when evil hides behind an innocent face -- and proves that love really is blind. Now completed!
1. Notes

Normally, I don't feel the need for a notes section. This particular fic, I did. Don't ask why; I guess I felt like I had a lot of explaining to do.  
  
First of all, this is the only disclaimer I'm putting in. I don't want to deal with them chapter after chapter, so here it is: I don't own Isaac -- he belongs to Stephen King. Everything else is property of me, especially Mary Montgomery. I don't own any of the songs. The concept of 'Children of the Corn' isn't used very prevalently, but I don't take credit for that. 'Baby' was inspired entirely by a dream I had, but -- as some of my friends know -- I doctored it up a lot to make it easier to read and understand. In the original copy, Micah made an appearance and was older than Isaac. That was just too weird, so I got rid of him. Yeah, I know, very unlike me -- but in order to have a good fic, sacrifices must be made. Ouch, bad pun!  
  
Second of all, this isn't going to be very long. I don't know, I guess it moves too fast to make a long, drawn-out fic about it. So don't be expecting something as long as my previous fics. Which brings me to another point: Sorry, all, but until this is done, I'm putting 'Casting Down Angels' on hold. Don't worry -- I know how it's going to end, and I _will _end it. No problems there.  
  
Third of all, I'd like to thank some people. Don't know why, for sure. I guess I just wanted to go all Academy-Award-Winner on you guys. So here it is! I'd like to thank my friends, for putting up with me as I wrote this and used them as guinea pigs. I'd like to thank the singers and songwriters and whatnot for the pretty songs that I used. I'd like to thank the garlic crackers that I ate late that night for giving me a weird dream. I'd like to thank the Academy, of course -- but most of all, I'd like to thank Stephen King for such a wonderful short story and movie series that inspired me to write all of my pretty 'Children of the Corn' fics. ...and Micah! No real reason, but he's just such a cutie that I couldn't resist!  
  
Last but not least, I'd like to announce that I have such a large amount of time on my hands that I have doctored some pictures and screwed around with the manuscripts. So, as of now, I have a printable copy of 'Suffer the Children' and 'Breathing'. I also have covers for them, as well as covers for 'Casting Down Angels' and 'Baby'. If you'd like any of the above, just e-mail me and I can send you a download for it. The requirement is Microsoft Word 6.0, but if I get a request, I might put it on my older computer and make a version for those of you with older programs.  
  
Okay, all done! Now you can read the fic! All input is cherished and put in a pretty box to be petted and dressed up in nice clothes. ...um... I mean... reviews are nice.


	2. Introduction

I have to admit, when I saw him for the first time, I had absolutely no idea what he was capable of.  
  
Some people would lie and say, "Oh, of course, I knew from the moment I saw him that he was trouble." But I've always believed that lying is wrong, so I won't do it. The first time I looked into those big dark eyes I fell in love. It was a strong love, too -- as unbreakable as it came. A blessing and a curse. I know how everyone looks at him: like a monster. But he wasn't a monster, not in my eyes. In my eyes he was an angel, and it would never change -- no matter what he did. So go on, laugh and scoff and say he was a beast. But you never saw him the way I did. That's what I'm trying to explain. Maybe my story will help you realize how much he meant to me, and how much I meant to him. Because as much as you may say that he was only a monster, a murderer, a child of the devil, you must remember that he _was _a child. A baby.  
  
_My _baby.


	3. Beautiful Eyes

_Well something happens when you find someone  
Who makes you feel like you can do no wrong  
No you don't have to take the whole world on  
Just be tender when you want to be  
_--from _Tender When I Want To Be _by Mary Chapin Carpenter  
  
I was nearly 12 when Aunt Melinda told me we were going to the adoption agency.  
  
I was thrilled, really and truly, and wanted to go right away. A lot of kids my age didn't like the idea of having a little brother or sister, but I wanted nothing more than a sibilng. I had a thing with kids, I suppose. And maybe it wasn't even a sibling I wanted; it was more like wanting a child myself. At least, that's how it ended up feeling.  
"Really?" I bounded around the kitchen happily, trying to take Aunt Melinda's attention away from the casserole she was cooking. "When? When?"  
"Soon," she said calmly. I sighed impatiently and tugged on her sleeve.  
"I'd like a _date, _Melly." She never minded that I didn't call her Aunt Melinda. In fact, ever since I had moved in with her, she didn't mind much. "When _exactly?"_ Aunt Melinda stirred the casserole mildly.  
"Sometime tomorrow."  
_"Really?" _My voice was nearly a squeal. I threw my arms around her aproned waist in a tight hug. "Great! Did they tell you anything about the kid you're getting?" She laughed with the kind of patience that only adults are blessed with.  
"You make it sound like the Home Shopping Network, Mary," Aunt Melinda said good-naturedly, and gave the casserole another stir. "And it's a baby, actually. A baby boy. Almost a year old."  
"A baby boy," I echoed blissfully. I smiled up at her and tugged on her apron. "One more question, Melly. What's his name?" She paused, thinking, then nodded.  
"Oh, yes. Isaac." I let go and sighed quietly.  
"Isaac," I repeated, and danced towards the living room. "You still have my old baby stuff from Mom and Dad?"  
"Sure do," Aunt Melinda called after me. "We'll get it set up tonight and pick him up tomorrow. The Agency's got everything already sorted out."  
_"Yahoo!" _I cheered, scampering up the stairs. "I'm gonna go get some of my old toys for baby Isaac!" I was so happy that night. If you would've told me what was to come in the next couple of years, I would've laughed right in your face. And probably stomped on your toes, too.  
  
We walked into the agency the next day with high hopes. Aunt Melinda stopped at the front desk and caught the attention of the secretary.  
"Melinda Montgomery?" she asked crisply. My aunt nodded. The secretary flipped through a couple of cards, then stood and disappeared into the back room. I shifted impatiently.  
"What's she doing?" Aunt Melinda glanced down at me.  
"Reporting us to the police," she chuckled. "She's getting the baby, dear. They sent him here this morning." Sure enough, the next moment the secretary reappeared, a tiny baby in her arms.  
"This is Isaac," she said, sounding less than interested. I hopped from foot to foot.  
"I wanna see!" Aunt Melinda put a hand on my head.  
"Calm down, Mary Mary Quite Contrary." I ducked away and stuck my tongue out.  
"I hate that name and you know it." The secretary came around the desk and glanced from me to my aunt.  
"Who wants to hold him?" I hurried over towards her.  
"Me!" The secretary looked at my aunt, as if to ask, "Is she competent enough?" My aunt nodded. The secretary carefully slid the baby into my arms, making sure that I held his head up right. It might've just been me, but I thought she was a little too eager to get away from him. I didn't care; I was too busy staring at the baby.  
  
He had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen.  
  
They were so dark, so _very _dark, with a very thin ring of gold around the pupil. I don't think anyone would've noticed that ring of gold unless they looked -- I mean, _really looked _-- but I saw it. And I thought it was beautiful.  
"What's the matter, Mare?" Aunt Melinda's voice came from behind me, surprisingly loud. "You look like you're staring at the Eighth Wonder of the World instead of a 10 month old baby." I blinked, a little startled, and finally looked away from Isaac.  
"I'm fine." I glanced back down at the dark-haired baby and smiled. "He's very cute."  
"His parents were in a horrible accident," my aunt informed me. "The Agency was glad to see him go to a good home -- isn't that right?"  
"Indeed," said the secretary thinly. "Ms. Montgomery, would you sign this for me, please?" Aunt Melinda turned back to the desk. I stared at the baby, fascinated by how tiny and delicate he was.  
"Hi, Isaac," I murmured, touching the tip of his nose lightly. He jerked away a little; I figured it was because I was too close to his eyes. I was undaunted, however. I brought up a finger to stroke his cheek gently, amazed at how soft his skin was. Needless to say, my maternal instinct was running wild.  
"Mary," said my aunt, startling me yet again. "Here's the bottle I brought. You want to feed him before we get in the car?"  
"Yeah," I said readily, and took the bottle of milk from her. I turned my gaze back to Isaac, smiling happily. "Here you go, Isaac. Drink up." I lowered the tip to his mouth. He jerked away again, and this time it hit me kind of personally. Insistent, I held my ground. "Come on, sweetheart," I urged quietly. Isaac stared up at me, eyes narrowing in a sort of cold shrewdness. I have to tell you, honestly and truthfully, I've never seen a baby look like that: before or ever again. It was the untrusting look of one who's been hurt too many times. It frightened me, but also struck up sympathy from somewhere within me. "It won't hurt you," I murmured, keeping it close to his mouth. "I promise." The secretary was watching, I noticed out of the corner of my eye. I resisted the urge to make a face at her and kept my eyes on the baby. Isaac looked at it warily, that age-old look still lingering -- before he surrendered and opened his mouth, taking a grateful drink from the bottle. The secretary relaxed; Aunt Melinda put a hand on my shoulder.  
"Let's go home," she said, smiling. I nodded, tipping up the bottle the way she had shown me.  
"Yeah. Let's go home."  
  
The first couple of weeks were the hardest. Isaac was fussy a lot, always wanting to cry and just waiting for the right moment to let loose a good long scream. Aunt Melinda insisted that it was because he missed his parents, but I wasn't so sure. Nevertheless, I loved him -- a _lot, _I soon discovered -- and was willing to put up with anything he did. I changed diapers, filled bottles, cleaned up baby food, picked up toys... and by the time the day was over, I was exhausted. But -- every morning at 2 a.m. without fail -- Isaac would wake up screaming, and that would be my cue to get up and give him a bottle before his little head blew up. I was lucky it was summer, because I most certainly wouldn't have made it during the school year. I was totally drained.  
  
And I loved every minute of it.  
  



	4. Disturbing Behavior

_You were standin' way too close  
To see it all fall apart  
And there were things you couldn't hear  
'Cause you were listenin' with your heart  
But you can't say I didn't warn you  
Now there's no one else to blame  
There's no one quite as blind  
As a victim of the game  
--_from _Victim of the Game _by Garth Brooks  
  
I was two weeks shy of 15 when Hell broke loose.  
  
Three years had gone by, slowly but surely. Isaac eventually calmed down and cozied into our little family -- and believe me, I was very relieved when I no longer had to get up before the sun. He had a few random nightmares, sure, but what kid doesn't? Isaac grew into a shy little boy, sweet when he wanted to be and loud when he wanted to be. He didn't like talking with too many people; when we went into public, he couldn't be persuaded to let go of my hand. I swear, that kid had the death grip on me every time we went to Wal-Mart. I didn't mind, though, hell no. Everything that would've bugged normal people seemed to thrill me to pieces. I guess I was as much of an oddball as Isaac.  
  
I shivered, despite my heavy black coat.  
"You wanna go for a walk, sweetheart? Or do you just want to go home?" Isaac shifted a little in his boots. His dark-haired head swiveled; he glanced this way first, then that. I didn't understand what he was looking at -- our neighborhood wasn't exactly fascinating. After Isaac turned three, the economy turned on us. Aunt Melinda lost her job at the department store, and it hit us hard. We had to move out from our cozy little home in the suburbs -- and ended up in a trailer park. I was always a little wary about that. I wanted Isaac to grow up in a nice home, but until Aunt Melinda got a better job, I couldn't do anything about it. The trailer park would have to do.  
"I would like to," Isaac said slowly, contemplating, "go home." I ruffled his hair gently and took his hand.  
"All right. Your choice." I paused, then glanced down at him. "Can I see a smile, then?" Isaac glanced up, his forehead wrinkling a little.  
"_Maybe," _he said in his I'll-Make-A-Deal voice. "Can I have a piggyback ride if I do?" I grinned good-naturedly and nodded.  
"Surely." Isaac offered one of his rare, shy smiles. When he wanted to, he could really use those pearly whites. I covered my mouth to hide another grin. He just looked so cute. Isaac didn't seem to care how cute he looked; he kept the smile, but tugged on my coat.  
"Can I have a piggyback ride now?" I laughed quietly and lowered to a squat.  
"I keep my promises, little man. Hop up." He scrambled quickly onto my back and threw his arms around my neck. I managed a glance over my shoulder and couldn't help but grin again. "You all set?"  
"All set," he echoed cheerfully, and gave my sides a kick. "Giddy-up!" I bounded off towards our trailer, Isaac yelping happily with every bounce.  
  
These were the moments I loved the most, the ones where Isaac wasn't afraid or angry or upset. When he was just a happy little four-year-old having fun. ...but I'm getting ahead of myself.  
  
We galloped into the trailer.  
"Ride 'em, cowboy!" I hooted, and Isaac giggled.  
"What are you two doing?" called Aunt Melinda from the kitchen.  
"Riding the rodeo," Isaac responded promptly. I laughed and gave him a couple more bounces before dropping him off in a chair.  
"You play with your toys, honey. I'm gonna help Aunt Melly with lunch, okay?" The little boy wiggled down to the ground and crawled towards his trucks. Trucks were his favorite, I noticed.  
"Yes, Mary Mary," he said pleasantly. I cocked a wary eyebrow at him.  
"Have you been listening to your aunt again?" I shook my finger at him in mock discipline. "You know I don't like being called 'Mary Mary Quite Contrary'." Isaac smiled innocently.  
"But that's not what I said." He picked up one of his trucks and began moving it back and forth with great care. "I just said 'Mary Mary.' That's better to say anyway." Heading towards the kitchen, I glanced over my shoulder at him.  
"Why?" Dark eyes looked up at me and blinked.  
"Because you're not contrary." I paused, my hand on the doorframe.  
"You know what contrary means?" I asked slowly, a bit surprised. Isaac nodded.  
"Mm hm. And don't worry, Mary," he assured me. "You're not 'quite contrary' at all." Still a little startled, I smiled nonetheless.  
"Thank you, Isaac," I said unsurely. I strengthened my smile and inched into the kitchen. "Spaghetti-Os okay for lunch?" He nodded, obviously very busy with his trucks. Turning away, I glanced at Aunt Melinda. "Can you hand me a can of Chef Boyardee, please?"  
"Sure." She produced a can of Spaghetti-Os and turned from her baking. That was something that bothered me. Aunt Melinda couldn't find time to get a better job and get us out of that hell hole, but she had _plenty _of time to bake. And my God, did that woman bake. Cookies, cakes, pies, cobblers... and I didn't even like sweets all that much. Isaac was another story.  
"Thanks," I said, a little drily. I slid the can into the canopener and pressed a button; the machine whirred noisily. "Whatcha makin', Melly?"  
"Peach cobbler," she replied cheerfully. Aunt Melinda turned back to the pan and kneaded the dough. "Mare, could you do something for me this afternoon?" The canopener clicked. I pulled the can down and groped in the cabinets for a bowl.  
"Depends on what." I poured the Spaghetti-Os into the bowl and stirred quickly. I had done this so many times that it was almost a mechanical reaction.  
"Well, I was going through our things, and we've got a lot of stuff we don't need..." The tone of her voice gave her away. Whenever Aunt Melinda had another money-making or money-saving idea, she spoke slowly and unsurely. I rolled my eyes.  
"Yard sale?" I said dully. She nodded guiltily.  
"Yes. Isaac's baby things, he doesn't need most of them anymore -- like his bottles and crib and things -- and we could make some money off of them at a yard sale! Mrs. Smith's got a granddaughter, I'm sure she could use any of what we have!" I pressed the buttons on our makeshift microwave (it was an old broken-down thing we'd found on bulky-pickup day) and raised my eyebrows.  
"Like, for instance, the blue tee-shirt that says 'I'm a big boy now'?" Aunt Melinda winced a little. I couldn't help it; _she _was the adult, she should've been out finding a better job instead of planning yard sales and baking peach cobblers. I leaned against the counter as the microwave whirred dully. "Have you looked at the classifieds lately?"  
"Well... no," she admitted, and I shook my head in disgust.  
"You have to find a job that pays more than minimum wage," I snapped. Aunt Melinda busied herself with her peach cobbler. "I don't want Isaac growing up in _this _godforsaken place, Melinda!" Isaac looked up from the living room, dark eyes wide. He only watched for a moment before returning to his trucks.  
"Then why don't _you _go find a job?" Her voice was quiet and held a trace of bitterness. "Then _you'd _see how hard it is." The microwave beeped. I whirled and yanked the bowl out, stirring quickly to contain my anger. It didn't work well.  
"Well, I _would, _Aunt Melinda," I began hotly, "except there has to be someone competent around here to take care of Isaac." The words were harsh, and it showed in Aunt Melinda's face. I calmed down a little and blew on the hot Spaghetti-Os. "Besides," I said, voice softening. "I was supposed to get my working permit last summer. I couldn't because Isaac broke his leg, remember?"  
"Oh." She began pouring in the peaches. I shook my head in disgust, partly at myself and partly at Aunt Melinda.  
"Anyway. What did you want me to do?" She spoke quietly while I poured some orange juice into a cup for Isaac.  
"I have some flyers made up. I'd like you to run them out to the Morgans, Mrs. Smith, and the VFW Club." She scooped out the rest of the peaches busily. "Put the rest in the park's office."  
"Sure thing," I said softly, and took Isaac's lunch to the table. Setting it down, I ambled back to the living room. "Hey, Isaac," I began, then stopped. The little boy was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bunch of his toys surrounding him -- balls, trucks, and rag dolls, mostly. Those were his favorites. I leaned against the doorframe, smiling. Isaac was running the trucks back and forth and making cute little 'put-put' noises. I was about to murmur "how cute" -- or something to that effect -- when I noticed something. He was running the trucks over the dolls. Quite deliberately. I inched closer, frowning a little. I had always taught him that it wasn't nice to play like that. Dropping to a knee beside Isaac, I watched him for a few more moments before clearing my throat to make myself known. His little game was unnerving.  
"Hi, Mary Mary," he said pleasantly. I forced a calm smile.  
"Hi." Isaac ran over another doll. I swallowed, a little painfully. "Isaac, honey," I said softly, smoothing his hair. "Time for lunch, sweetheart. Put the toys away."  
"But I'm not done," he said simply, and ran his truck over the face of a red-haired doll. Growing nervous, I put my hand on his arm.  
"You can finish playing after lunch. Come on, your Spaghetti-Os are getting cold." He jerked away a little. This was getting very eerie. I did _not _like it when Isaac didn't want to be touched -- he hadn't been like that since he was a year old -- and I did _not _like it when he didn't listen, which was a rare thing.  
"I'll eat when I'm _done," _Isaac said bluntly. Sighing with what I hoped sounded like ordinary impatience, I reached for his truck and took hold of it.  
"I promise, you can play with them after lunch. Your lunch is going to be stone cold before you get there." I started to pull it away. Isaac made a loud sound of protest and -- before I knew what was happening -- clamped his teeth down on my hand. I shrieked in pain and surprise.  
"OW! _Isaac!" _I pulled away violently and he let go. Something in those dark eyes, however, told me he could've held on much longer than that. Something told me that the first time was just a warning.  
"What's wrong?" called Aunt Melinda from the kitchen. Clutching my injured fingers, I watched Isaac with wary eyes.  
"Nothing," I murmured, and stood. "Isaac's going to eat when he's done playing." I turned towards the kitchen, but couldn't resist a glance over my shoulder. Isaac was looking at me, absently moving his recovered truck slowly over a doll.  
"Told you, Mary Mary," he said calmly. The tone of his voice was just cold enough to sting, and it sounded much too knowing for a four-year-old. I shivered, hid my hands in the folds of my shirt, and went into the kitchen.  
  



	5. Tainted Innocence

_There's no time to kill between the cradle and the grave  
Father Time still takes a toll on every minute that you save  
Legal tender's never gonna change the number on your days  
The highest cost of livin's dyin', that's one everybody pays  
So have it spent before you get the bill  
There's no time to kill  
--_from _No Time To Kill_ by Clint Black  
  
I re-bundled Isaac in his coat and scarf. It was still August, but we were having a weird cold snap and wouldn't take any chances. Pulling my own heavy black coat over my shoulders, I grabbed the flyers with my injured hand and winced. Aunt Melinda noticed.  
"How'd you do that?" she asked slowly. I flashed a sheepish smile.  
"Burnt it on lunch," I said mildly, and pushed Isaac towards the door. I could feel Aunt Melinda's eyes on me as we left.  
"Be careful," she called after us. There was something in her voice that scared me; like she knew something was wrong, but what _exactly _wasn't clear. I took Isaac's little hand in mine and tossed over my shoulder,  
"Sure will, Melly. We'll be back later."  
  
I glanced at the flyers with a sigh.  
"First stop, the Morgans." I made a face down at Isaac, who mimicked it.  
"Yuck," he said, and stuck out his tongue. I snickered as I ruffled his dark hair.  
"Exactly." I looked at the trailer disdainfully. "I really don't want to deal with Nikki and Candy today."  
"Want me to bite 'em?" Isaac asked helpfully. I blinked in surprise, then laughed at the thought of the cheerleaders being chased by a little boy. But something in the back of my mind told me he wasn't joking. I shook my head.  
"Nah, not right now. Maybe later, if they give us trouble." We walked up to the front door of the trailer and knocked. There wasn't an answer at first; I knocked again. "Mrs. Morgan?" I called when no one answered. "Are you home?" The door opened. There stood my two least favorite people in the trailer park -- Nikki and Candy Morgan, both fully decked out in their cheerleader outfits and so glossed up I thought I'd go blind.  
"What do you want?" Nikki sneered. I gave her a tight smile.  
"To talk to your mom for a sec. I've got a flyer to give her." I waved the flyer around for emphasis. Isaac glared up at them from behind me; lately, he had taken to hiding behind my leg and gripping my jeans like he'd go flying off if he let go. Candy rolled her eyes and popped a bubble of her pink gum.  
"And you brought the little monster along with you?"  
"Watch it, Candy Cane," I said calmly. I'd known the Morgans only since we'd moved here, but they did everything they could to make my freshman year a living hell. But this year I'd be a sophomore; wiser, wilier, and willing to pay them back for every rotten thing they'd done to me.  
"How mature," Nikki said drily, and eyed the hand that held the flyer. It had a big red welt from where Isaac had bitten me. "Did he do that?" she asked dully, pointing. I narrowed my eyes and slipped off my jacket. It was getting a little warm.  
"Sure did," I said, my lip curling. "And if I have to put up with much more of your crap, he'll do it to you too." To add to that statement, Isaac made a little growly noise from behind my pant leg. Candy backed away a little -- she always was a coward -- but Nikki just rolled her eyes. I patted Isaac's head in approval, then looked back at the girls. "Can I see your mom-- _please."_  
"Whatever," Nikki said thinly, and whirled into the house. _"Mo-o-o-om!"_ Candy lingered at the door, watching Isaac warily.  
"Something's not right with that kid," she said in a low voice, then followed her sister. I felt Isaac grip my jeans tighter and instantly hated her for saying that.  
"You've got it all wrong, bitch," I replied quietly. "Something's not right with _you."_ Cheek pressed against my leg, Isaac nodded.  
  
After talking a few moments with the grossly overweight Mrs. Morgan, we headed towards the Smith's trailer.  
"Those girls," I said through clenched teeth. "Someone needs to give them what they deserve."  
"They're not very nice," Isaac observed softly. The pretty brunettes appeared before my mind's eye again, pointing and saying that there was something wrong with him. I shook my head and tried to keep my temper under control.  
"No, they're not. I should've let you bite them." Then I paused and reconsidered. "Isaac," I said slowly, "why did you bite me this afternoon?" He shrugged his little shoulders.  
"I wasn't done playing." That was said as if it explained everything. "I was mad at you." I nodded a little.  
"Oh." Isaac was silent for a moment. Then he wiggled his little hand into mine.  
"I'm not mad at you anymore," he said helpfully. I smiled down at him, though still a little wary.  
"Good." I squeezed his hand gently. "C'mon. We'll talk to Mrs. Smith, head to the VFW Club, and then we can go home."  
  
Mrs. Smith took less time than Mrs. Morgan. She was an elderly lady and only minor on the creepy scale -- a big achievement in our neighborhood. Mrs. Smith was almost normal, aside from her weird obsession with Frank Sinatra. Every time I visited, I had to listen to at least three of Ol' Blue Eyes' greatest hits. This visit, however, I got away with only one. Halfway through the chorus of 'Witchcraft', I noticed that Isaac had disappeared.  
"Isaac?" I called slowly, and his dark-haired little head poked around the corner.  
"Yes, Mary Mary?" He smiled sweetly. I squinted a little, but took his shoulder and gently pulled him back to my side.  
"Where were you, honey? It's not polite to leave during Mrs. Smith's favorite song." The elderly woman was frowning at his disappearance, and I was eager to get him back in her good spirits. Isaac clung to my pant leg the moment he got there and grinned innocently up at Mrs. Smith.  
"I was playing with the doggies," he said, and the old woman smiled. She certainly did have a lot of dogs -- seven, at least.  
"Oh, that's nice," Mrs. Smith said pleasantly as Ol' Blue Eyes finished up his song. "I'll be sure to come to your yard sale, dearie."  
"Thank you, Mrs. Smith," I murmured with a polite smile. I gave Isaac a little push towards the door. "We'll be happy to see you there. And really, it was nice to listen to Mr. Sinatra." The old lady clasped her hands and sighed dreamily.  
"It _was, _wasn't it?" I nodded, keeping my forced grin, and hurried Isaac outside.  
  
Nearing the end of our journey, the next stop was the VFW Club -- a definite 10 on the weirdness scale. Sure, we're supposed to honor our veterans... but _these _veterans were eccentric old military men who sat around and plotted the destruction of the Nazis. I couldn't bear to tell them that the Nazis had already been destroyed. Besides, it was just too funny.  
"Hello," I called, knocking on the door with my free hand. Isaac wouldn't let go of my left, so he volunteered to hold the flyers for me. A knobby-looking old man poked his head through the door, glanced around, and beckoned.  
"Hurry," he said in a dry whisper. "There could be spies watching." I smothered a smirk with my hand and slipped in, pulling Isaac along behind me.  
"Commander Matthews," I said with a salute. "I bring news from the other side." The old man at the head of the table full of old men took the flyer from me.  
"Another yard sale," he said with a scoff. I smirked, unable to hide it this time.  
"Who knows? Maybe you'll run across some enemy intelligence. Nazis are attracted to things like that." A glimmer went through his eye. Matthews straightened a little.  
"Thank you, Private. You're dismissed." I lingered by the table, pointing at the models on it. That was another weird thing. Just like all the military guys in the movies, the VFW Club had a battleground model, complete with tanks and planes. They even caught fire when you pressed a button. Not a smart thing to have, I thought. If the fire should spread or something combustible got too close to the flame, none of them would make it. Think about it-- a flaming trailer full of old guys. Who can rush?  
"How are the plans going, Commander?" I asked with false concern. Matthews puffed his chest out proudly.  
"Very well. We'll hit those Nazis hard, and then -- on to the Japs!" The table erupted into weak, cough-ridden cheers. I almost lost it right there. Biting back laughter, I nodded.  
"Indeed, sir. Let me know the moment things head our way." I saluted again, then glanced down at Isaac. He looked rather fascinated with the models, and his tiny fingers were creeping towards the button. I stopped his hand just in time. "Don't touch, sweetheart." I flashed the table of old men a grin and hoisted Isaac up, balancing him on my hip. "Knock down a couple of Nazis for me." Turning, we headed out the doorway. Isaac waved cheerily over my shoulder.  
  
"All righty," I said, smiling at Isaac. "We're gonna stop up at the park office and drop off the rest of the flyers. Then we're going home." Isaac nodded his approval. I bounced him a little on my hip. "You wanna walk the rest of the way?"  
"Yes, Mary," he said sweetly. I lowered him to the ground, ruffled his hair, and took hold of his hand.  
"Okay, then. Shall we race?" But I didn't hear his answer. A long, bloodcurdling shriek filled my ears. I jumped visibly and tightened my grip on Isaac's little hand. "What on earth?" It was coming from behind me. I glanced around wildly, and finally glimpsed the source: Mrs. Morgan, waddling towards me with a face white as chalk. She was still screaming.  
_"You!" _she shrieked, and sobbed once. _"You did this!"_  
"Did what?" I yelped. My hand tensed even more around Isaac's. Mrs. Morgan staggered closer, clutching something in her own hand.  
_"Why did you do it?" _She sobbed again. Her screaming was drawing a little crowd. _"WHY?!" _  
"Do what?" I shouted, becoming panicked. Mrs. Smith came out of her trailer, and I heard Frank Sinatra singing dimly. She was soon surrounded by even more people, ever curious about the world around them and wondering why the fat lady was yelling her head off. I swallowed thickly. "I don't even know what you think I did!"  
_"My girls are dead!" _Mrs. Morgan screamed. I felt my heart dive into my chest.  
"Nikki-- and Candy--?"  
_Someone needs to give them what they deserve._  
"Oh, good," she said drily, and gave a hysterical laugh. "Glad to see you remember them!" My hand had to be crushing poor Isaac's, but he didn't complain.  
"Why do you think I did it?" I asked, voice wavering. The crowd had started to gasp and whisper. "There's no proo--"  
_"Here's your proof!"_ Mrs. Morgan shoved the thing she was holding at me. It was a jacket -- big and black -- my jacket. I stared at it in confusion.  
"I was at your house this morning," I said slowly. "You know I was. I talked to you. I must've left it there. This doesn't prove--"  
"LOOK AT IT!" Her shriek startled me. I looked at it.  
  
It was covered in blood.  
  
I felt a dry heave creep up my throat, and I covered my mouth with my free hand to force it back down. The crowd gasped and whispered even more. Some of them had started to filter towards the Morgans' trailer. The door hung open, and I could glimpse a few things inside. A mess of brown hair. An unmoving hand. A once white-and-red cheerleader's outfit -- that was now mostly red.  
"Mrs. Morgan," I said, my voice a hoarse whisper. "Really, I didn't, I _couldn't_--" And then I stopped. I felt what color that was left in my face drain. _The boy, _something dark in my mind whispered. _The boy._ "Isaac?" I asked in a small voice, staring down at the little face by my pant leg. He was smiling.  
"I did what you asked," he said pleasantly. I heard noises dimly: people gasping, talking, screaming; the opening and slamming of trailer doors; Mrs. Morgan finally surrendering to the shock and breaking down into hysterics. And all the while, Isaac just stared up at me, smiling sweetly. I opened my mouth to say something -- or perhaps it just fell open.  
  
And that was when the VFW trailer exploded.  
  
Isaac was still smiling.  



	6. Prayer

_Baby, I'll take care of you  
I'll never let you down  
No harm will ever come to you  
As long as I'm around  
I am not afraid of what people say or do  
The only thing I fear is being here  
Without you  
--_from _Bobby _by Reba MacIntire  
  
I stared down at Isaac in disbelief.  
"Honey," I whispered. "What are you talking about?" A cry from the crowd startled me from those big dark eyes.  
"But it couldn't have been Mary!" It was Mrs. Smith, staggering towards us in her robe and slippers. I thought it might've been the first time she was out of her trailer in years. "It couldn't, it couldn't! I saw one of the Morgan girls walking outside while I was talking to Mary! She couldn't have done it!" Another whisper went through the crowd. Despite the thoughts rushing through my mind, I gripped Isaac's hand even tighter.  
"Then who?" shouted someone. I stared straight ahead, but my eyes were being tugged towards Isaac.  
_No, _my mind screamed. _If you look at him, they'll know you know! _Even though I wasn't sure if I _did _know, my gaze trailed down to Isaac. Another ripple of sound went through the crowd. I dropped slowly to my knees, still feeling rather numb and distant.  
"Isaac," I said slowly, taking his hand gently in mine. It took me a moment to pry my other hand from his. "Isaac, honey, what do you mean that you did what I asked?" He stared innocently back at me.  
"You said they needed to get what they deserved." I stroked his hand lightly with my thumb, turning it over to rub his palm soothingly. It was something I had done since he was little, when he had nightmares or got upset. It always seemed to calm him down -- but right now he wasn't upset or afraid. Isaac was perfectly complacent. I rubbed his palm anyway. Maybe it was more for me than him.  
"You're not saying that," I whispered. "Don't sound like that, Isaac--" And then I looked down at his hand. There was something... _wrong _with it. I squinted and leaned closer.  
  
There was dried blood under his tiny, perfect nails.  
  
"Oh, God," I choked, and the mob shifted threateningly.  
"He did it, didn't he?" murmured someone. I swallowed thickly and released his hand. I pulled myself slowly to my feet and looked around. More people had moved towards the trailer. Those people were gasping and clutching their stomachs and scurrying off towards their own trailers. _To call the cops, _my mind said harshly. _They're going to call the cops._  
"No," I whispered, glancing around the crowd.  
_They're going to take him away.  
_"No," I said again, louder this time. "No, he didn't do it!"  
_"My girls!" _Mrs. Morgan sobbed. I groped blindly and felt something soft-- Isaac's jacket. I took hold of it and pulled him in front of me, dropping to my knees again.  
"No!" I wasn't even sure of what I was doing anymore. All I knew was that when things like this happened, they took the child away from the parents. The parents never saw him again. It would be a punishment for Isaac -- but even moreso, it would be a punishment for me.  
_They'll take him away and you'll never see him again.  
_"He didn't hurt anyone!" I cried. The crowd shifted again and moved closer. I pulled Isaac to me in a tight hug, pressing his face into my shoulder. "He's just a baby!"  
"I called the police," someone whispered. "They're on their way." That wasn't meant for my ears, but I heard it anyway. I pulled the little boy even closer, my heart pounding in my throat.  
"He's just a baby!" I shouted again. "Please!" Mrs. Smith stepped out of the crowd.  
"Mary," she said kindly, wringing her hands. "Please, Mary. Just let us see little Isaac and we can help."  
_They're going to take him away.  
_"NO!" I screamed, and did the only thing I could think to do. I ran.  
  
It was a good thing I ran when I did. It caught the crowd by surprise, and Isaac and I were a good fifty feet ahead before they figured to go after us. By then, we were already out of the trailer park and into the woods.  
"Hurry," I gasped, pulling him along behind me. "Hurry, Isaac, you have to go faster!"  
"I'm going as fast as I _can," _he complained, and there was a little yelp. It took me a moment to realize that the firm grip on my hand was gone. I whirled quickly, staggering back to where Isaac lay hunched on the ground.  
"What's wrong?" I panted as I took him by the arm. Isaac looked up and sniffled.  
"My knee," he whimpered, showing it to me. It was only a scrape, but bloody enough to look like it hurt.  
"Honey," I murmured, but the police sirens caught me offguard. I hooked my hands beneath Isaac's arms, hoisted him up, and held him tightly as I began running again. We were halfway through the straggly trees -- it was an urban forest, after all -- when the sirens stopped and it didn't seem that anyone was following us.  
  
I dropped to my knees, panting. Isaac was still cradled tightly against my chest.  
"You didn't do it," I gasped, pressing his face to my shoulder. "I know you didn't. You couldn't have."  
"My knee hurts," Isaac sniffled. I sobbed quietly, but pulled him away and sat him down on the ground. I had to regain composure -- I was the adult, after all.  
"Let me see," I said softly. He bent his leg to expose the rip in his jeans. The scrape was still bleeding, but not too much. "It's not that bad." Isaac sniffled and wiped his face on his sleeve.  
"It _hurts_." That struck me as rather funny; the little boy might have committed murder, and his biggest worry was his scraped knee. I laughed -- a high, hysterical sound -- and Isaac scowled. "It's not funny," he muttered. I recovered quickly and shook my head.  
"No, it's not." I paused, wondering what to use for a bandage. _His scarf, _I thought suddenly, and began pulling it off of him. "Here, sweetheart," I murmured, dabbing at his injury. "I'll make it better. Just hold still." Isaac wiped his eyes on his sleeve again and whimpered.  
" 'Kay." I wiped up the little amount of blood and began wrapping the scarf around his knee.  
"It's not that bad," I said in a soft voice, winding it tightly around the wound. "I promise, it's fine." I tied it off carefully, then bent forward and gave the scarf-wrapped knee a light kiss. Isaac sniffled quietly.  
"Thank you." I gave him a weak smile and suddenly felt very depressed -- this was how things went normally. I did this only two days ago when he'd hurt his finger in the door, but _this _time we were on the run from the police. For murder.  
"You're welcome," I said tearily, and put my face in my hands.  
_Stop, you're supposed to be strong!_  
But I started crying anyway. There was a long period of silence before I felt a little hand on my shoulder.  
"Don't cry, Mary," Isaac murmured. I shuddered a little, unable to repress a sob.  
"I'm... sorry," I whispered, and the little boy pulled one of my hands away from my face.  
_What's he going to do, chop it off?  
_I pushed the dark thoughts away.  
_No, because he loves you. You love him, and he loves you._  
Isaac rubbed my palm gently, and I felt a weird sense of deja-vu.  
"Don't cry, Mary," he said soothingly. "I didn't think it would make you sad. I thought it would make you happy." I shook my head a little, looking at the ground instead of his face.  
"Don't say things like that. It makes it sound like you did it." Isaac paused, then returned to stroking my hand carefully.  
"But you _said," _he insisted. "You _said _they should get what they deserved, and they called me a little monster--" The tears were there again, hot and painful.  
"Stop it!" I gasped, looking up at Isaac at last. "Stop it! You didn't do it, and you can't let them make you think otherwise!" I couldn't help it now -- I was supposed to be strong, to be the adult, but it was all too much. I surrendered to the quiet sobs, pressing my face against my free hand. Isaac hesitated again. He released my hand and sat back for a moment before crawling forward and leaning against me.  
"Don't cry, Mary," he said again, and snuggled against my chest. I immediately put my arms around him in a tearful hug, pressing my cheek against the top of his head. I was nearly ready to stop crying when Isaac spoke again. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee." I swallowed, frowning in confusion, but smoothed his hair anyway.  
"Isaac," I said slowly, but the little boy went on.  
"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus." Isaac nestled into me gently and sighed. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners -- now and at the hour of our death." I frowned in earnest confusion, stroking his hair carefully.  
"Isaac," I repeated. He looked up at me with big dark eyes.  
"Amen."  
_"Isaac," _I said again, and he leaned his cheek against my shoulder.  
"What?" Isaac asked innocently. I shook my head slowly.  
"We're not Catholic." He gave me a sweet smile.  
"I know."  
  



	7. A Bad Boy

--I thought I'd apologize for the length of time between chapters... I've been really blocked, but I'm finally free. ^_^ Yay! Well, enjoy, and I'm glad everyone likes this so much. It should be done fairly soon.--  
  
_Who would sell their soul for love  
Or waste one tear on comprimise  
Should be easy enough  
To know a heartache in disguise  
But the heart rules the mind  
And the going gets rough  
Pride takes the fall  
When you find that kind of love_  
--from _That Kind of Love _by Alison Krauss  
  
Night fell. That turned out to be quite a problem; like any other little boy, Isaac was afraid of the dark.  
"I want my night-light," he whimpered, and I pulled him to my chest.  
"I know, honey. I know." I stroked his hair tenderly. "Sweetheart, don't be scared. If you close your eyes, it's just as dark." Isaac snuggled against my shirt eagerly, burying his face and shielding his eyes.  
"But it's _dark," _he said piteously, voice muffled. I felt a strong surge of simple love for the boy. He was just so helpless, so delicate... So uncapable of what they had said he did.  
"Quiet, sweetheart. I'm here, I won't let anything get you." I kissed the top of his head carefully. "I promise." Isaac quieted obediently, snuffling softly into my shirt. I pondered in this silence for a moment.  
(They'll be gone by now.)  
The gentle pressure of his cheek against my collarbone was a comfort in itself.  
(The police will have left. The trailer park will have gone to bed.)  
"Isaac, honey," I murmured, stroking his hair thoughtfully. "How would you like to go back to the trailer park? Just for a few minutes while we get Aunt Melly to help us?" There was a moment of silence.  
"Could I get my toys?" he asked quietly, and I nodded.  
"Yes, sweetheart. You could get your toys, and Aunt Melly will figure out what we're going to do next." Isaac paused, then leaned away from me.  
"Are you mad at me, Mary?" It was a careful question, sincere in its concern. I swallowed back yet another onslaught of tears and shook my head.  
"No, Isaac." I hugged him tightly. "Never." Isaac hesitated, then buried his face in my shirt.  
"Good," he said, voice muffled. "I don't want you to be mad at me." I bit back a sob and pressed a kiss against the top of his head.  
"We'll go back soon, sweetheart." I began to rock him slowly back and forth, something I hadn't done since he was a baby. Isaac relaxed in my arms and let out a quiet sigh.  
"I love you, Mary," he murmured, and I nearly cried again.  
"I love you too," I choked, falling silent again. I didn't want him to hear my voice shake; he needed to believe in me now. I was the adult. For the next fiteen minutes, I rocked Isaac in my arms, the both of us with our eyes closed -- for entirely different reasons.  
  
Isaac balanced expertly on my hip, we snuck quietly back into the trailer park. Everything was black and silent; yellow police tape decorated the Morgans' trailer like some kind of ridiculous plastic fence. Isaac's mess had been cleaned up fairly well, I noted grimly. My guess had been right, too -- the police were gone and everyone else had gone to bed, despite the fact that a 3 foot tall psychotic killer was on the loose. I glanced at the accused. He had his thumb popped in his mouth, eyes squeezed tightly shut in an effort to forget the darkness. I slipped a hand up to smooth his hair. _He's almost too cute, _I thought, then shook my head and walked cautiously towards our trailer. The key was where it always was; tucked behind the stack of unread newspapers. I always wondered what Mel would do if someone took an interest in our recycling and cleared away the moldering newspapers. It hadn't happened yet.  
"Isaac," I murmured. "We're here, I'm going to put you down." The little boy complied wordlessly, landing on his small sneakers with a dull thump. I slid the key into the lock, turned it, and ushered Isaac in with the palm of my hand. "Melly?" My voice was soft, an urgent calling. "Melly, where are you?" I walked quickly through the trailer and glanced around; Melly was in the kitchen, sleeping with her head in her arms and a cup of hot milk in her hand. I smiled in relief and turned to tell Isaac it was all right, but he was on his backside in the living room, in the process of carefully choosing which toys were going with him on the journey. Deciding to let him deal with what was most important to him, I tapped Melly's shoulder lightly. She snorted awake and lifted her head groggily from her arms. Her tired eyes blinked, then finally focused on me.  
"Mary?" she said slowly, disbelievingly. "Oh, Mary, thank God you're all right--" Mel struggled to sit up.  
"All right?" I frowned, but continued anyway. "Mel, you have to help us. You have to get us out of here. Please--"  
"Mary," she said again, and stood. I knew right there I had made a mistake; by the way she stood, the way she was watching me. My feelings were confirmed by what she said next. "I'm so glad you're all right. We have to take Isaac to a doctor, get him help--" I backed away slowly, unable to believe what I was hearing.  
"You're joking." I glanced over my shoulder at Isaac, who was putting his toys into a bag with great care. "Please, Melly, tell me you're joking."  
"He needs help," my aunt insisted.  
"He needs _me!" _I cried, and whirled away into the back room. "I'm getting us packed. We'll be out of here quickly. We won't bother you for long, don't worry about that."  
"Mary," she said patiently, sounding like she was dealing with a difficult child. I shook my head in wordless rage and stalked into my room. "Mary!" she yelled again, and this time she seemed panicked. Melly started to follow me, then stopped at the edge of the living room. I didn't care; I was so angry, it was hard to think. What the _hell _was _wrong _with her?  
  
I stormed into the back room, shoving things into a faded canvas bag. I couldn't believe it. Melly, my aunt, my _friend, _wanted to turn Isaac in. She'd known him just as long as I had; she knew who he was. Isaac wasn't capable of hurting anyone. Fuming, I glanced into the living room.  
"Isaac," I called, and stuffed a shirt into the already bulging bag. "Finish packing. It's time to go." There was silence. I suddenly realized his bag had been neatly zipped and set by the door, ready and waiting. "Isaac?" I repeated, lower this time. There was still no response; I thought I caught soft voices in the kitchen. I crept closed, bag under my arm.  
"You've done a bad thing, Isaac," Mel was saying, her tone nervous. "You need help."  
"Mary and I are going away." There was Isaac, pleasant as always. "We're going away." I set my bag down and moved closer.  
"You've committed a crime," Mel said, and this time her voice shook. Footsteps fell across the cheap kitchen tile.  
"Mary and I," Isaac repeated with unsettling patience, "are going away. It's what He wants." Another pause. I heard Mel gasp. "You wouldn't want to go against His Word, would you?"  
"He?" Mel echoed. She was still nervous and shaky, but there was a distinct undertone of terror. I found I couldn't move; my feet had frozen, my legs locked up. What was going on in there?  
"It's what He wants," Isaac said again, and Mel made a weird choking noise. My legs seized up even more.  
"Isaac -- Isaac, no! Isaac, _no!"_ There was a short cry, an odd, wet gurgle, and a meaty thud. At last, I gained control of my legs and stumbled into the kitchen, but I already knew I was too late.  
"Oh my God," I said, then promptly turned and threw up in the sink.  
  
Melly's throat had been cut -- by the small steakknife lying a few feet away, I imagined -- and her shirt was drenched with blood. I'd seen such sights in horror movies, but this... this was _real. _This wasn't red corn syrup, this was _real blood._ And perhaps the scene wouldn't have been as bad if Mel hadn't been shoved under the kitchen table in a desperate, half-assed attempt to keep her out of sight. I stared at my dead aunt in pure, abstract horror until my eyes drifted to the center of the kitchen. There, on the dirty checkered tiles, sat Isaac, trembling with his head in his hands.  
"Lord," he whispered, "I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." I stared at him, unable to believe what I had just seen with my own eyes. Had he just -- just killed --  
_Well, you know the answer to that, don't you?  
_After a long moment, Isaac finally whimpered through his shivers and I remembered who he was. I stumbled towards him, arms wrapping around his tiny, shaking body.  
"We have to go," I said unsteadily, trying not to shudder myself. He didn't respond. "Come on, Isaac, we have to go."  
"Hail Mary," he whispered, and clutched my shirt desperately with his tiny hands. "Hail Mary, Hail Mary, I have sinned, _oh _I have sinned..." I put my hands on his shoulders and shook him a little. Everything was falling down around my head, but I _had _to keep at least a shred of my sanity. We had to _leave._  
"Isaac, we have to _go!" _The little boy looked up at last, his face a whiter shade of pale than normal, eyes pricked with tears. That surprised me; I hadn't seen him cry without physical pain since his last bad nightmare over a year ago.  
"I didn't want to. I didn't want to. She was going to take me away from you, and He told me she had to be disposed of, but I didn't want to and now... Melly's... _dead!" _Isaac ended this speech with a prompt fit of sobbing. I pulled him hard to my chest and stood, cradling him against me.  
"Isaac. Isaac, sh," I murmured, and began rocking him slowly back and forth. "Isaac, Isaac... sh, you'll wake the whole trailer park." Isaac couldn't seem to stop crying; his little body shook with the force of each sob, and it made me want to cry myself. But my tears were frozen behind my eyes, so I had nothing to worry about. "Isaac," I said quietly. It took ten more minutes of careful rocking and soft, soothing murmurs until the little boy finally calmed down enough to speak. Isaac looked up at me at last, his eyes dark and filled with tears.  
"I'm a bad boy," he whispered. The self-contempt in his voice made my heart twist painfully; I gave him a hard, desperate kiss on the cheek and shook my head.  
"No, sweetheart, no. But we have to go." Isaac's face disappeared into the folds of my shirt.  
"Okay. I don't want to look at her anymore. I've been a _very _bad boy." I hurried to the door, balancing him on my hip as I grabbed both our bags.  
"Sweetheart, no," I said softly, and pressed a quick kiss on the top of his hair. Without another word, we vanished back into the forest, just like something out of a fairy tale -- Red Riding Hood and her little wolf.


	8. Him

_You've gotta roll with the punches  
You've gotta aim to hit the mark  
You've gotta follow your hunches  
And try to finish what you start  
And when you come to the crossroads  
And you're deciding in the dark  
You've gotta listen  
To the whisper of your heart  
--_from _The Whisper of Your Heart _by Trisha Yearwood  
  
By 4 a.m., I had walked so far I thought both my legs were going to snap in two. Isaac had long since fallen asleep; around 2 a.m., his soft snuffling noises had died down and I'd kept him tightly cradled against my chest. But now I was craving sleep has well, and I knew if I walked much farther I'd probably collapse. At last, the soft glow of streetlamps could be seen through the trees. I nearly cried in relief.  
"Isaac," I murmured, bouncing him around a little. "Isaac, baby, you have to wake up." The little boy shifted slightly, then squeezed his eyes shut.  
"Time for cartoons?" he mumbled. I smiled weakly. That was the first thing he asked every Saturday morning.  
"Maybe in a little while, sweetie. Come on, we need to find a place to stay. Then you can sleep."  
"Okay," he said drowsily, and snuggled against my shirt, drifting off once again.  
"No, no, Isaac, wake up." I gave him a little jostle; Isaac's dark-haired head snapped to attention.  
"Wake up, wake up," he repeated sleepily. Still bouncing him slightly to keep him awake, I slunk slowly past the treeline into the street. We'd come out in the small town of Swedholm; I'd visited this place a few times before. It was a village mainly for tourists, not much bigger than our hometown of Westville Heights. I stopped to think for a moment. Westville Heights was nearly 5 miles from here -- it was almost impossible to believe that I'd walked that far -- and wouldn't have the common sense to spread the unpleasant news the night of. The police (the four of them that were there) would do a thorough town-search first before alerting any nearby villages. A plus for us. I dug in the pocket of my jeans and unearthed a twenty dollar bill. Yes, this might work for a little while.  
"Come on, honey," I murmured, heading for the Inne I knew was on Main Street.  
"Wake up, wake up," Isaac said in a sing-song voice, and buried his face in my shirt. "Wake up, wake up."  
  
The hostess looked up from behind the desk and smiled.  
"It's odd that we'd have visitors this early," she said easily, taking the money I'd handed her.  
"Yeah, sorry for the inconvenience." I shifted the once-again-sleeping Isaac on my hip. "My aunt had car trouble and sent us ahead to get a room until she could catch up." The hostess looked at me as if she didn't care for my horrible excuse, but handed me a room key anyway.  
"Take the lil'un upstairs. He needs to get some rest." I smiled -- one that was both relieved and exhausted -- and took the key gratefully.  
"Thank you," I murmured, and hoisted our bags up again. "Isaac."  
"Wake up, wake up," he said muzzily.  
"Cute li'l fellow," the hostess said, walking for the kitchen.  
"You have no idea," I muttered into Isaac's shoulder, and trudged up the stairs.  
  
"Arms up, please." Isaac obeyed wearily; I pulled his pajama shirt down over his head, careful not to hurt his ears. I'd made the mistake of doing that once, and had paid for it with a nasty scratch on my neck. "Good," I murmured, smoothing his hair slightly.  
"Sleepy, sleepy," he said thickly.  
"C'mere." I hoisted him up and set him on the edge of the bed. I expected him to crawl up to the pillow, but instead Isaac just sat there watching me. His eyes were dark. Very dark. After one long moment, I put my hands over his small ones and took a deep breath. "Isaac," I murmured, "why did you hurt those people yesterday?"  
"It was what He wanted," he responded immediately.  
"Who is _He?" _ I took one of his hands and turned it up, then drew one finger over his palm. "Isaac, sweetheart, who is He?" Isaac watched me carefully, almost as if he were waiting for me to make some sort of move. Then he went on.  
"He tells me things. He's told me things for a very long time." I froze, then continued stroking his palm tenderly.  
"What kind of things?" I murmured. Isaac paused, then glanced upwards at the ceiling.  
"Well-ll-ll..." He drew out the word like that and finally looked back at me. "He tells me things I didn't know before. Like when Aunt Melly told me I couldn't have my trucks because I'd colored on the walls, He told me that they were hiding on the middle shelf of her closet." I remembered that fairly well; he'd been two, and Melly had been amazed when he'd found them in less than five minutes. She hid them over and over, but no matter where she put them Isaac had found them in no time flat. As I recalled, he'd won that battle.  
"What else, sweetheart?" I rubbed his palm, watching him intently. Isaac used his free hand to scratch at his eyebrow.  
"Hum," he said absently, as if we were talking about something as casual as breakfast. "Oh! He told me something last summer. Right after you stopped going to school for a while."  
"What did he tell you?" I asked quietly. Isaac smiled a little; it seemed he was happy to finally be sharing this with me.  
"He told me you were going to go away again. That you weren't going to play with me as much every day." I frowned slightly -- he was talking about last summer when I was going to get my working permit. Isaac's eyes squinted as he tried to remember what he was told. "He said I had to take 'drazzic mezures'." I smiled faintly.  
"Drastic measures," I murmured. He nodded emphatically.  
"Yeah! And if I didn't take drazzic mezures, you were going to leave." There was a long pause; I stopped stroking his hand.  
"What did you do, Isaac?" He smiled.  
"I jumped off the front porch."  
  
Suddenly, it hit me. Whoever "He" was, He had told Isaac drastic measures needed to be taken because I was going to leave. That was when he'd jumped off the front porch and broken his arm. I couldn't get my working permit because I had to take care of him, and hadn't went to get it since. Isaac had me all to himself, and apparently -- that was what He wanted.  
"Isaac," I whispered, "did He tell you to hurt the twins?" Isaac nodded again.  
"Mm hm."  
"And... Melly?" My throat had gotten considerably more narrow.  
"Mm hm." Isaac smiled a little. "I'm glad He's not our secret anymore. Sometimes... He scares me." I stood quickly, not wanting to talk about Him anymore.  
"Time for bed, Isaac," I said, voice dry. He turned obediently and crawled up to the head of the bed; I followed. There was only enough money for a one-bed room, but that was just fine. It might keep Isaac from having nightmares.  
"Night, Mary Mary," he said sleepily. I pulled the covers up, feeling as if I'd entered a daze.  
"Night," I said, then stopped. "Isaac, do you remember when you used to have bad dreams?" Isaac nodded as I switched off the light.  
"Yes." There was a very long silence; I laid slowly down on the pillow, barely able to make out his silhouette in the darkness.  
"What were they about?" I whispered.  
"Him," Isaac responded promptly, and inched closer. "Night, Mary." After one long moment, I pulled his little body even closer.  
"Goodnight, Isaac." I pressed a soft kiss against his forehead. "No bad dreams, please."  



	9. Necessary Sacrifice

_Bittersweet memories  
That is all I am taking with me  
Goodbye  
Please, don't you cry  
'Cause we both know  
I know what you need  
--_from _I Will Always Love You _by Dolly Parton  
  
The next morning, Isaac was sitting in front of the small television and watching it intently. He'd found his cartoons, I saw.  
"Isaac, when did you wake up?" I murmured, struggling to a sitting position. He looked over his shoulder at me and smiled.  
"A while ago. I wanted to watch my cartoons." Isaac pointed a small finger at the television screen. "See? Bugs an' Daffy." Smiling faintly, I rubbed my eyes with a fist.  
"Yeah. Bugs and Daffy." I was distantly trying to remember the dream I'd had; I could only remember whispers of it, and that was driving me crazy.  
"They're here." Isaac had spoken suddenly, not glancing away from the television.  
"Who's here, honey?" I murmured. The little boy pointed at the window, then brought his finger to his lips.  
"Shh. I'm watching cartoons." Quietly -- obediently, I suppose -- I slipped out of the bed and to the window. Swedholm lay down before me; I looked around a little.  
"Who's --" I began, but Isaac shot me a look just dark enough to silence me. Frowning, I glanced over the road again. I lowered my voice slightly so as not to disturb Bugs or Daffy. "I don't see anyone," I murmured.  
"Keep looking," he said complacently. "He says to keep looking."  
"Keep looking," I muttered to myself. "But I don't _see --" _But then I _did _see something. Two cop cars -- one rolling slowly down the road, the other parking at the end of the Inne's driveway. "Oh, shit!" I cried, and Isaac twisted to give me a reprimanding look.  
"Cartoons," he said bluntly. It was no time to be ordered around by a five-year-old and his invisible friend; I began packing clothes like you wouldn't believe. Isaac sat pleasantly in front of the television.  
"Isaac," I said quickly, glancing over my shoulder at him. "Come on, time to get going. We have to leave." He shot me a brief, irritated look.  
"But my cartoons --"  
"Come on!" Isaac had gotten his way before, but now was not time to worry about his cartoons. I grabbed his arm roughly and hoisted him up, shouldering my bag as we did so.  
"But --" He began to protest, but slowly a look of realization spread over his face and Isaac fell silent. We hurried to the bathroom, where I had seen a window out the back.  
"We have to get out," I gasped, "before the bad men get us, okay, sweetheart?" The little boy nodded wordlessly, and I set him on the lid of the toilet. My fingers were unusually quick and precise; I unlocked the latches on the window and slid up the pane of glass effortlessly. Sticking my head outside, I noticed that the roof sloped downwards, then lead to a gutter that trailed to the ground. It might be dangerous, but I was willing to risk _my _safety -- just not Isaac's.  
"He says we have to go down the roof," Isaac said quietly. I turned to him and offered a small smile.  
"All right. We'd better hope He's right." Quickly, I hooked my hands under his arms and lifted him to the window. Isaac wiggled through; once he was out, he used one hand to grip the windowsill and the other to take the bag. I went through with a little more difficulty, but soon enough I got out. Isaac handed me the bag, and I took his hand. "Be careful," I murmured. He nodded solemnly.  
"You too," he responded softly, and we both slid down the slope of the roof.  
  
We made it down all right -- well, Isaac did. I landed too hard on my feet and twisted my right ankle. It hurt like the dickens, but I couldn't let Isaac see me cry. Not again, not at this point. I forced a smile and took him by the hand, not sure if I would be able to carry him anymore.  
"Come on, Isaac," I murmured. "This way, into the trees."  
"Again?" he asked, sounding sad. I paused to look at him; a little boy in dirty pajamas, looking too skinny and too pale and too tired. It didn't matter how badly my ankle hurt anymore.  
"I'm sorry," I said quietly, and hoisted him up on my hip again. "I'm sorry. We'll find a better place, I promise." Isaac buried his face in my shirt.  
"Okay. Into the trees."  
  
A few hours later, I couldn't walk anymore; my ankle felt swollen to the size of a casaba melon, and Isaac felt too heavy to even pull along behind me. There were two more reasons as well: one, a small town loomed right up ahead of us, and two, I knew that we couldn't run anymore. I was too tired to take it, and Isaac was too young to take it. So, right outside the little town, I came to a dead stop and turned to Isaac.  
"Baby," I said softly, "we're going to have to do something different, okay?" The little boy nodded, pushing a handful of dark hair out of his eyes.  
"What are we doing?" he mumbled. I paused for a few long moments to think, then finally came up with a plan -- surely, it was half-witted and very shaky, but as they say in the movies, just crazy enough to work.  
"Isaac," I murmured, then chewed my lower lip hard. I stuck out my good knee and patted it for him to sit on, and he did. "You know we can't keep going like this, right?" He nodded again.  
"Uh-huh." I rubbed his shoulder gently.  
"Okay, then I have something very important to tell you." It hurt my chest to even think of saying the words, but I swallowed the lump from my throat and went on. "When we get into that town --" I jerked my head at the village. "-- I'm going to take you to a place that will take good care of you, okay?" Isaac began to nod, but slowly his eyes narrowed.  
"You take care of me," Isaac murmured.  
"I know, I know." I bounced him slightly on my knee. "But I'm going to take you somewhere that will take very good care of you, I promi--"  
_"You _take care of me, Mary," he repeated, brows meeting. I squeezed my eyes closed and wished he weren't making this so hard.  
"I can't anymore," I said thickly. "I'm... I'm slowing us down, and if I go alone, then at least you'll be --"  
"No!" Isaac wiggled off my knee and whirled to face me, face even paler than before. "No, I won't _let _you!"  
"Isaac," I said pleadingly, bringing up a hand to rub at my eyes. I couldn't let him see me cry, not _now..._  
_"No!" _He turned from me to dig in the bag I'd set down. I had no idea why he was looking for his toys at this point, but Isaac had always been unpredictable.  
"Please don't be --"  
_"I won't let you!" _Isaac whirled, a kitchen knife clutched in a small fist. I noticed with faint horror that it still had faded splotches of dried blood on the blade -- from Melly.  
"Isaac --" I stumbled backwards, re-twisting my ankle and landing hard on my rump. "-- don't --"  
_"You can't leave me alone!" _Isaac pointed the knife at me. _"I WON'T LET YOU LEAVE ME!"_  
"Honey, don't --" I shot up a hand and grasped his wrist tightly, trying to keep the blade away from me. "-- stop --" He struggled hard against my grip but couldn't get free; Isaac's face twisted in anger.  
_"YOU CAN'T --" _Suddenly his face crumbled, dark eyes filling with tears. His fingers loosened on the knife and he dropped it. "I don't want you to leave me," Isaac whispered. The shock of what had just happened wasn't too strong for me to remember that he was still just a little boy. I let go of his wrist and pulled him hard against my chest in a tight hug.  
"Oh, Isaac," I mumbled, smoothing the slight cowlick that had formed in his dark hair. He was crying softly into my shirt, his small body trembling against mine.  
"Please don't," Isaac whimpered. "Please don't leave me alone." I let out a soft sob of my own, and he hugged me hard around the neck.  
"It'll be all right," I said quietly. "I promise it will." After nearly fifteen minutes, I finally realized that it was time to do what I had to. "Time to go, sweetheart," I murmured.  
"No," he said softly into my shirt.  
"Isaac. We _have _to go."  
"No," he repeated. I started to pull away, but his arms tightened around my neck. "No, I don't want to go. No. _No."_ I gave him one last tearful hug, then slipped out of his grip and managed to stand. Isaac stared up at me in silence, his dark eyes brimming with tears. I pressed a kiss against his cheek and sniffed back tears of my own.  
"I love you, baby," I murmured.  
"I love you too, Mary." Isaac rubbed at his eyes, then extended a hand for me to hold. I smiled a little and took it. We began walking for the town ahead of us.  
"What does He say now?" I asked, gently squeezing his hand in mine. There was a very long pause.  
"That this is what we must do," Isaac whispered. "That sometimes, sacrifices must be made." I glanced down to him and let out a shaky sigh.  
"He's right, Isaac. I just wish He wasn't." 


	10. Epilogue

_Baby blue  
Was the color of her eyes  
Baby blue  
Like the color of old skies  
Like a breath of spring, she came and went  
And I still don't know why  
So here's to you and whoever holds  
My baby blue tonight  
--_from _Baby Blue _by George Strait_  
_  
That afternoon, I took Isaac to the orphanage in the small town we had come upon -- Hemmingford. I had taken careful steps to make sure he was clean and presentable; he'd been changed into a new pair of pants and a shirt, his hair brushed and his face wiped off. I thought when I left him there he'd make another scene, but Isaac went along quietly with the social worker. He sent one last miserable glance over his shoulder at me, and I waved tearfully. That was the last time I ever saw my baby.  
  
Right after dropping Isaac off, I limped back to Swedholm and turned myself in. I told them that Isaac had run away, that I couldn't find him. They believed me -- or maybe they didn't. Either way, the people back home didn't want a witch hunt; they just wanted to bury the dead and get on with life. I got 1 year in a minimum security prison, but ended up with only 6 months for my good behavior. By the time I turned 18, I had worked up enough money to buy a one-way bus ticket to Chicago. That's what I did, and that's where I still am today.  
  
I checked up with Hemmingford's orphanage a year later. Isaac had been adopted by a nice couple called the Chroners. His new father was a preacher who lived in the nearby town of Gatlin, and from what the social workers told me, Isaac was only in the orphanage for three days before the Chroners had found him. Almost as if he had got there just in time.  
  
But that was ten years ago. I'm 25 now, a struggling writer living in a dingy apartment in the Windy City. Isaac is 15, and it was just the other day that I was wishing that I knew what he looked like as a teenager. Then this morning I got out of the shower and sat down at the table to read the newspaper. The headline read this: BOY PREACHER LEADS CHILDREN TO MURDER PARENTS IN CORNFIELDS OF NEBRASKA. It went on to say such things as "one of America's most twisted massacres", "Bible Belt has never seen such horrors", "surviving children insist the corn was responsible". But that wasn't what I noticed. What I saw was the picture next to the article, a black-and-white photo of a man in a preacher's uniform, a woman in an apron, and a dark-haired teen in all black. My Isaac.  
  
I went on to read that a traveling couple had come into Gatlin to find it deserted; nothing else past that mattered until I read that the supposed ringleader of the children -- Isaac Chroner -- had been killed in a freak accident that supposedly ended Gatlin's horror. There were no other details. He was dead, and that was all that seemed to matter to the media.  
  
I know that for everyone else who read that paper, he was just another disturbed teen who'd seen too many horror movies. Just another self-righteous preacher. Just another casualty of the news. But not for me. Because it wasn't just a boy whose death I read about this morning, it was Isaac.  
  
My baby. 


End file.
